


A Midnight Clear

by vitruvianwatson (keepyoureyesfixedonme)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, But there will be fluff, Canon Compliant, I promise, M/M, Post S4, new year's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-22 22:16:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13176330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepyoureyesfixedonme/pseuds/vitruvianwatson
Summary: “Don’t you want to know what the letter says?”John shrugs.  “Not particularly, but I don’t suspect my disinterest will stop you from telling me.”Sherlock ignores this.  “She wants us to come visit for the New Year.”“You mean she wantsyouto come visit for the New Year.”Sherlock shakes out the letter once more and reads aloud.  “‘It’s about time you and Doctor Watson came ‘round for a visit.  It’s been far too long, and there’s simply no excuse for it.  I don’t care how busy you think you are.  Your father and I will be expecting you both for the New Year.  If you aren’t in this house by December 30th, I shall consider it the gravest of insults.  Love, Mummy.  PS—Make sure you refrigerate the fudge.’”





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> This, my friends, is only chapter one, so please try not to let the angst get you down. There will be fluff, there will be love, and there will be happiness. I promise. 
> 
> If you're interested, you can find me on tumblr at [ vitruvianwatson](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com). I'll post links to the updates there as well.

 

**_"Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed."_   -Richard Siken, _Crush_**

* * *

“Rosie’s asleep.”

John looks up from his book as Sherlock strides back into the room, dressing gown billowing behind him, and flops down onto the sofa in that way that shouldn’t look nearly as graceful as it does. He glances over at John who gives him a small smile.

“Thanks for that,” he says, and Sherlock simply shrugs and settles down into the cushions, ankles crossed, hands artfully folded over his stomach.

It had been a relatively quiet day so far if you didn’t count Rosie’s little temper tantrum after lunch. John had dropped his head into his hands and sighed, tired from a restless night of little sleep, and Sherlock had simply said, “I’ll take care of it,” before sweeping Rosie up into his arms and waltzing her up the stairs. John had stared after him for a moment, half-relieved, half-bewildered, but the sounds of Rosie’s screaming slowly dwindled, and John had settled into his chair with a book, determined not to examine Sherlock’s willingness to deal with his wailing child too closely.

Now, with only the sounds of the crackling fire beside him and the London traffic drifting in from the street outside, John returns his eyes to his book and attempts to focus on the story rather than on the lanky detective sprawled along the length of the sofa.   He succeeds for a few minutes until a rustling sound distracts him. He looks up to find Sherlock holding a piece of paper over his head, a deepening frown on his face as his eyes zoom across the words.

John is prepared to ignore it and go back to his book until Sherlock lets out a dramatic sigh and flings his arm out so that it’s dangling over the edge of the sofa, the paper just barely clinging to his fingertips. Actually, even then John is prepared to ignore it because he’s not sure he’s in the right headspace for Drama Queen Sherlock at the moment. He’s just turned his attention back to his book, however, when yet another, more pronounced, sigh issues from the general vicinity of the sofa. John shuts his eyes, lets out a breath, and closes his book over his thumb.

“What?” he asks bluntly, shifting to face the lump on the sofa.

Sherlock opens one eye and looks John up and down before closing it again. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he says, waving his free hand.

John is slightly tempted to throw the book at him. “Out with it, Sherlock.”

Not that it’s surprising, but Sherlock actually has the gall to huff in a way that suggests _John_ is the one being difficult. “It’s _nothing_ , it’s just a ridiculous letter.”

“What sort of letter?”

“From Mummy.” A touch of pink colors his cheeks, and he snaps his mouth shut with a _click._

It’s enough to crack the thin layer of John’s annoyance, to soften his mouth as it quirks up at one corner. “She still sends you post?”

Sherlock makes a face. “She’s suffers from a terrible combination of nostalgia and _sentiment_.”

“No wonder you’re such a softie,” John says drily, and Sherlock glares at him.

“Don’t you want to know what the letter says?”

John shrugs. “Not particularly, but I don’t suspect my disinterest will stop you from telling me.”

Sherlock ignores this. “She wants us to come visit for the New Year.”

“You mean she wants _you_ to come visit for the New Year.”

Sherlock shakes out the letter once more and reads aloud. “ _‘It’s about time you and Doctor Watson came ‘round for a visit. It’s been far too long, and there’s simply no excuse for it. I don’t care how busy you think you are. Your father and I will be expecting you both for the New Year. If you aren’t in this house by December 30th, I shall consider it the gravest of insults. Love, Mummy. PS—Make sure you refrigerate the fudge.’_ ”

He folds the letter back up and tosses it onto the coffee table. “Feel free to read it yourself if you don’t believe me.”

John chews on his lip for a moment, torn between amusement and his lingering irritation at Sherlock’s theatrics. He eyes the letter, thrown haphazardly on the table, and he can’t help smiling a little bit because he can certainly see where Sherlock gets his flair for the dramatic. He leans back in the chair and stretches his legs out, groaning slightly as his right knee pops.

“So, are you going to go?”

“You mean, are _we_ going to go,” Sherlock corrects, having now returned to his relaxed pose. He looks such the picture of serenity that it’s almost difficult to reconcile the image with the frenzied, energetic man that usually inhabits this flat.

“I can’t go,” John says, and Sherlock frowns, turning to look at him again, the unspoken question in his eyes. His t-shirt, worn from so many years of use, hangs loosely around his neck, and when he shifts that way John catches a glimpse of one sharp collarbone peaking out. He swallows and looks away, his mouth suddenly very dry. “I’ve got Rosie to think about. I’m not dragging her out to the country in the middle of winter.”

Sherlock waves an impatient hand. “Molly and Grant can watch her for a few days.”

“Greg,” John says automatically, staring at the image of his own socked feet against the garish carpet. Sherlock just makes a disinterested noise. “And it’s too short of notice. I’m not just going to drop my child on them and skip town.”

“Well, I wouldn’t suggest dropping your child anywhere, that would most certainly be bad for her health,” Sherlock says. “But that’s beside the point. They won’t mind. They adore Rosie.”

“And _that’s_ beside the point.”

“Well, what _is_ the point?”

John’s temper flares. “The point is that it’s _rude_ , Sherlock,” he snaps. “The point is that it’s basic human decency! The point is that you have to actually take other peoples’ feelings into account!” He gets up and walks—all right, fine, he _stomps_ —into the kitchen and wrenches open the cupboard above the sink. He has to stand on his tiptoes to reach the bottle that’s been mysteriously pushed to the very back of the cupboard even though John distinctly remembers leaving it near the front due to the very fact that he has trouble reaching it otherwise.

He avoids looking toward the sofa while he pours, his hand shaking slightly. Whisky splashes onto the table, already stained from years of experiments with questionable liquids. One more little stain won’t hurt. It’s just John leaving his mark. The room he’s just left is maddeningly silent, but he’s not sure if that’s due to the roaring in his ears or the simple fact that Sherlock isn’t speaking. He doesn’t usually drink in front of Sherlock. _As if it matters_ , he thinks, scoffing quietly to himself. _No use hiding anything from a bloody mind reader._

He knows, he truly does know, that’s he’s overreacting, that there’s absolutely no reason for him to be this angry in this particular moment. He knocks the whisky back, already pouring another before the liquid has even finished burning its way down his throat. He wants to say it helps, that it calms him down, that it really does serve a purpose. But it doesn’t, especially not when he knows that Sherlock’s eyes are tracking his every movement.

The bottle of whisky thuds dully against the wood of the table as John sets it down a bit more forcefully than he means to. He winces as more splashes out, dotting a few of Sherlock’s papers, smudging carefully written words as the wet ink bleeds out in jagged lines like blackened veins. He places his palms flat against the table and hangs his head, closing his eyes and taking a series of deep breaths. When he finally looks up again he’s startled to find Sherlock is beside him and even more startled when his friend just barely touches the back of his left hand, a spark of warmth against John’s icy barrier.

John stares at Sherlock’s fingers, the long, beautiful elegance of them; he stares at where they connect with his own hand, the pads of them soft and inviting. And he knows what he wants. It’s right there, hovering at the edge of his vision, so close he can almost taste it. So he takes another drink, and the places where Sherlock’s fingers had touched him feel cold and empty.

When he sets the glass back down, he takes care to do it gently. “I’m sorry,” he says. It comes out slightly hoarse, and he clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Shouldn’t have what? He’s not even sure what he was going to say. Shouldn’t have gotten angry? Shouldn’t have yelled? Shouldn’t have had another drink when he’d made it almost forty-eight hours without one?

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says quietly, not having moved from his place beside John, close enough that John can feel his body heat, can smell the soap still lingering on his skin from his afternoon shower. It makes his head spin. “It’s all fine.”

God, how he wished those words were true. One side of his mouth twists into a grimace, his mind racing back to that first night at Angelo’s. They _had_ been true back then, back when the most complicated question about his life with Sherlock was ‘When can I move in?’ Well, perhaps ‘Did I just text a murderer’ was a slightly more complicated question, but his life was still much more straightforward.

“Come with me,” Sherlock says, and his voice is so soft and careful that it makes John’s eyes sting. “The village is very…nice this time of year. We can bring Rosie. She’ll like it. Or—”

“No,” John says, and he straightens up, pulling in a long breath. He can’t look at Sherlock even though he knows he won’t find anything like reproach in those eyes. “No, it’s—I mean—I don’t mean _no_ , I mean…what day do you want to leave?”

“I thought Friday morning. The twenty-ninth. I’ll drive.”

John nods. “I’ll text Greg, see if they’ve got anything on this weekend.” It’s New Year’s, so he fully expects them to say no, especially on such late notice. But perhaps Mrs. H could take Rosie for that one night, if Greg and Molly wanted to go out.

He takes another breath, the taste of the whisky still strong in his mouth, and he finally cuts a glance to Sherlock who’s watching him in his usual unreadable way, head angled slightly to one side, and his robe hanging haphazardly off of one shoulder. John’s hand clenches, itching to reach out and fix it, maybe to brush a few of those wild curls off of Sherlock’s forehead, too. He doesn’t do either of those things, but he doesn’t pour another drink either, and when Sherlock puts the whisky away, John doesn’t protest when he pushes the bottle all the way to the back of the cupboard.

And that’s something at least.


	2. Friday, December 29, Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! So I really wanted to get this fic done by New Year's, but that's obviously not going to happen since TODAY is New Year's, and I'm only on chapter two. (Blame the grad schools I've been trying to apply to). Anyway, I'll keep updating this fic when I can! I'm hoping to be able to do at least a chapter a week. Hopefully more! And don't worry, this chapter is a bit happier than the last one. :)
> 
> Don't forget, you can find me on tumblr at [vitruvianwatson](https://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com). I'm always happy to take questions and comments! <3

* * *

 

**_“_ _You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.” --_ Richard Siken, _Crush_**

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s socked feet make no sound as he slips into John’s room. The sun is only just beginning to creep above rooftops, and there’s a soft glow filtering in through the edges of the closed blinds on the room’s single window. John is, for once, sleeping soundly, and Sherlock has every intention of keeping him that way for as long as possible.

Rosie is standing up in her crib, her small hands curled over the edge of it, watching Sherlock with wide, blue eyes. Sherlock presses a finger to his lips as he creeps over to her, and she lifts her arms, reaching for him. Sherlock scoops her up into his arms and makes his escape, easing the door shut behind him.

“Excellent job, Watson,” he says as he carries her down the stairs.

Rosie sticks her thumb in her mouth and rests her head on Sherlock’s shoulder. When they get to the kitchen she garbles something that sounds a bit like ‘milk’ and Sherlock nods. “Yes, we’ll have breakfast while your daddy has a rest.”

He deposits her in the high chair and retrieves her stuffed elephant from the sitting room. She giggles delightedly when he hands it to her and sets about getting her something to eat. While she digs into her yoghurt—making a complete mess of herself in the process—Sherlock takes the time to glance at the results of his most recent experiments, keeping one eye on Rosie and one ear tuned toward John’s room.

The sitting room grows brighter with the rising sun, and Sherlock has just finished wiping Rosie’s face clean and is unbuckling her from the high chair when he hears the telltale creak of John’s bedroom door opening.

“Daddy’s awake,” he says to Rosie, hoisting her up. She pulls on a lock of his hair, giggling when he gently pulls on her ear in retaliation. He smiles slightly, shifting her onto his hip just as John walks into the room, still sleep-mussed and yawning.

“Daddy!” Rosie says, clapping her hands and then reaching for him. John’s smile is soft and warm as he pulls her into his arms.

“Morning, love,” he says, and his eyes—whether inadvertently or not, Sherlock can’t tell—shift from Rosie to Sherlock who can’t help the way his cheeks warm.

“I made tea,” he says, nodding to the kettle. “And Rosie has eaten. Although she didn’t seem to be particularly fond of the banana.”

As if to emphasize this point, Rosie makes a face and says, “No” more adamantly than Sherlock would expect from a two-year-old.

“Oh, is that right?” John tickles her tummy, which makes her collapse into laughter.

Sherlock takes advantage of John’s momentary distraction, his gaze sweeping over him from head to toe. The circles under his eyes, while still obstinately present, are not as dark, and the smile that curves his lips is genuine, his laughter unforced and authentic. He’s still in his sleep clothes, but there’s a prominent pillow crease lining the left side of his face, which means once he woke up he’d simply rolled out of bed and come straight downstairs rather than lingering in his own thoughts for a while beforehand. A good sign.

In the four months since John moved back to Baker Street, he’s slept through the whole night a grand total of twenty-three times, twenty-four counting the previous night. Part of it, of course, is because of Rosie. Children are disruptive and noisy, after all. But the baby monitor situated in the sitting room gives Sherlock a clear indication of when John is up because of Rosie and when he’s ripped from his sleep by a nightmare. Perhaps John would consider it a Bit Not Good that Sherlock listens in on him, but John never thinks to turn the monitor off, and Sherlock has found that his own anxiety increases exponentially if he turns it off himself.

The monitor, however, isn’t the only clue to John’s inner turmoil. Often when he’s pulled unceremoniously back into the waking world, John will venture downstairs—quietly, carefully, believing that Sherlock is dead asleep—and the sound of the whisky bottle knocking against the glass as John pours with shaking hands will drift down the hallway and slip beneath Sherlock’s closed door. Sherlock never interrupts him; he doesn’t try to stop him, not outright, because he knows that John will be ashamed and embarrassed, and it will only drive him deeper into the bottle.

The incident two days ago had been only the second time that John had deteriorated enough during the day to drink in front of Sherlock, and the detective had been trying to piece together what had triggered it with frustratingly little success.

“Something on my face?”

Sherlock blinks, and John comes back into focus as he’s pulled from his musings. “Hmm?”

John’s brows pull together. “You all right?”

There’s something so absurd about John being the one to ask that question that it takes Sherlock an embarrassingly long time to process the words and respond. “Yes,” he finally says. “Yes, I’m fine. Did Lestrade say when they would be arriving?”

John continues to watch him a bit warily, but he says, “About ten.” Rosie struggles in his arms, so he sets her down, and she takes off into the sitting room where her toys are strewn about from the night before.

Her nonsense words and occasional laughter fill the flat while she plays and while John eats his breakfast in his chair, looking over the morning paper. Sherlock retreats to his room to finish packing, and he’s just zipped up his bag when he hears Rosie shout a garbled version of Molly’s name.

When he enters the room, travel bag in hand, Lestrade is already nursing a cup of tea over by the breakfast table, and Molly is seated cross-legged on the floor in between John and Sherlock’s chairs, Rosie climbing all over her in ecstasy.

“Thanks again for doing this,” John is saying, sounding ridiculously apologetic about it.

“Oh, we’re happy to, aren’t we, Rosebud?” Molly says, hugging Rosie tightly.

“Yeah, it’s not a problem, mate,” Lestrade says. He grins at Sherlock. “I’ve always wanted a chance to snoop through all your stuff anyway.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but before he can reply John says, smiling, “Just don’t mess up his sock index, or he’ll get cranky.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lestrade says and claps Sherlock on the shoulder before raising his cup to his mouth.

Sherlock smiles politely. “I’ll be more cranky if you have sex in my bed, so do try to control yourselves.”

Lestrade chokes on his tea, and Molly lets out a little squeak, her cheeks flushing scarlet.

“Ready to go, John?” Sherlock asks brightly, and he sweeps out of the room and down the stairs without waiting for a response.

 

* * *

 

Once John has moved past his initial irritation—a simple knee-jerk reaction to Sherlock saying inappropriate things—the drive is quiet and comfortable. The city falls away and is soon replaced by leafless trees, struggling against the winter wind, and rolling hills of fading green.

They’re about an hour into the drive when John says, “I think Rosie was a bit upset when you left without saying goodbye.”

As much as he’s loath to admit it, there’s a slight pang in Sherlock’s chest at this bit of information. “Do you think so?”

“Mmhmm,” John says, his head lolling sideways against the seat as he looks at Sherlock. “I went to give her a kiss, and she kept saying your name. Or at least, the best approximation of your name she could muster. Sounds more like ‘Sir Log’ when says it.”

There’s laughter in his voice, and Sherlock makes a face at the nickname, if only to pull that amusement further up toward the surface. It works, a quiet chuckle slipping past John’s lips, and Sherlock cuts him a glance just as John looks back toward the road. He looks relaxed, more so than Sherlock would have expected so early into the trip, especially considering he hadn’t had a drink in almost two days. His hand doesn’t even shake when he reaches into the bag at his feet to retrieve his mobile.

Sherlock remembers touching that same hand two days ago. His fingertips seem to pulse with the suddenly rapid beating of his heart, and he flexes his hands on the steering wheel.

“I suppose I’ll have to make it up to her when we return,” he says, his voice calm, betraying nothing of the rhythm in his chest. “Perhaps I’ll buy her a chemistry set.”

“Sherlock, she’s not even three.”

“So? I’d already blown up my first chemistry set by the time I was four.”

John outright laughs this time, and it pulls at something in Sherlock until he smiles as well. When he looks toward his friend, John is watching him again, and there’s a softness in his eyes that Sherlock has only seen directed at him a few precious times. He tucks the image away with the rest of them, locked securely in a corner of his Mind Palace where he can peruse them at will.

“I’m sure you’d done much worse than that by the time you were four,” John says, his smile still lingering in the words. “I’ll have to ask your mum all about it.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “She’ll be all too delighted to fill you in, I have no doubt.”

“Good.” John settles back in his seat, stretching his legs out as much as he can in the limited space. “How much longer you think?”

“At least another hour.”

“Think I’ll close my eyes for a bit.”

Sherlock only hums in response, but he switches the radio on and connects it to his mobile. The violin has always had a soothing effect on John, and, sure enough, when the first notes of one of Sherlock’s own compositions filter through the speakers, the corner of John’s mouth curls into a smile, and any lingering tension in his shoulders vanishes.

Sherlock taps out a quick text.

_I realise I may have forgotten to say thank you. SH_

The reply from Lestrade comes within two minutes.

_No problem. Take care of him._

Sherlock flicks his gaze to John, and he has a brief, mad desire to reach over and run his fingers through the short strands of his hair.

_I always do. SH_

He sets his phone down on the dash and tries to convince himself it wasn’t a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! <3 Kudos and comments are loved and appreciated!


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